


Mixing Colors

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Illustrated, Multi, fusion without plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Two people, depending on chemistry, depending on affection, can fuse. Can become one.





	1. Chex laughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh god, what the hell,” Tucker says.
> 
> Chex laughs.

“Oh god, what the hell,” Tucker says.

Chex laughs.

“She actually _is_ Church’s girlfriend?” he asks the world in general, because he can’t imagine that Tex would’ve fused with Church if he really was just her clingy ex in denial, and also because he is shocked, _shocked,_ that Church has a girlfriend and he, Lavernius Tucker, local sex beast, doesn’t.

“More like he’s her boyfriend,” Chex scoffs, along with a toss of their hair. Tucker tries not to stare because it’s _weird_ to be into fusions, especially fusions of your totally lame friend and his terrifying girlfriend. But holy fuck, they’re so unfairly hot. Chex has Tex’s blonde hair and Church’s green eyes, and it’s too, too much of a good look. Not to mention that _all_ of Tex’s muscles and Church's cheekbones are still there. Since when did fusion work by keeping all of a person’s hottest attributes?

“Since I was into me,” Chex says, and it takes a moment for Tucker to realize that 1. He just despairingly asked that last question out loud, and 2. Right, there’s a lot of pronoun weirdness where fusions are concerned. Is Chex talking about Tex being into Church, Church being into Tex, or both? Or Tex being into Tex and Church being into Church? … That last one sounds most plausible of all.

Chex moves closer towards Tucker, and that’s Tex’s murder stalk but Church’s insufferably smug full of himself grin. It’s a shockingly devastating combo. He freezes like a deer in headlights and before he knows it Chex is standing way too close, rubbing their stunning seven feet of height over Tucker’s average, _normal_ five feet something in his face.

“Cat got your tongue, shortstuff?” they say mockingly, and Tucker draws up every single inch he has and puffs out his chest at them and in general tries to pretend that he’s fused with anyone besides his mom for more than three seconds in his entire life.

“Fusions are almost always freakishly tall,” he says, hating and kinda loving that he has to crane his head back so much to meet their eyes.

“Are you secretly one of the rare freakishly short ones, then?” Chex asks.

“Shut up!” he blusters, scrabbling for a comeback when all of his blood is rushing away from his brain.

“Mm, let me think,” Chex says. _“No._ I’m your leader _and_ a Freelancer outside of your chain of command. You can’t make me do _anything.”_

That last part is said with a sudden serious intensity, Chex’s green eyes widening almost manically.

“Uh,” he says, dry mouthed and caught entirely off guard for five solid minutes now. “When… is Church coming back? And Tex?” Because Church is infinitely easier to deal with than Chex, apparently, and even Tex sounds preferable about now. At least she doesn’t get so close to his face when she threatens him.

“When I feel like letting go,” they say, and then give him a sharp smile which he doesn’t recognize. Church couldn’t be genuinely threatening if he tried, and Tex opts towards scowling. “Don’t hold your breath.”

And then they whip around and stalk away with all of Church’s arrogance and all of Tex’s skill that actually makes it justified for once, and Tucker realizes--

“Did you just _lift my wallet,_ you bitch!?”


	2. Grimmons opens his eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons fuses with someone for the first time far past the time it’d be normal. He’s an  _ adult.  _ He’s in his  _ twenties.  _
> 
> He’s always been terrified to do it, but Grif’s a bleeding wreck on the ground and he doesn’t know what to do except to dive for him, to fix him at any cost. He’s got no idea of what he could possibly do to fill up the days without Grif around. There’s not enough paperwork in the entire Gulch for that. 

Simmons fuses with someone for the first time far past the time it’d be normal. He’s an  _ adult.  _ He’s in his  _ twenties.  _

He’s always been terrified to do it, but Grif’s a bleeding wreck on the ground and he doesn’t know what to do except to dive for him, to fix him at any cost. He’s got no idea of what he could possibly do to fill up the days without Grif around. There’s not enough paperwork in the entire Gulch for that. 

He dives for him thoughtlessly, he grasps at him thoughtlessly, and then he fuses with him thoughtlessly. If he’d stopped to think for even a moment, it wouldn’t have worked. He’d have had second thoughts, he’d try but be too nervous and self conscious to succeed, Grif would’ve bled out before he managed anything. 

But he doesn’t think at all, thank god. Dive, grab, gasp  _ “Grif,”,  _ see his eyes flicker open and to him for just a moment, dazed and dying and conscious for only a few seconds more-- 

Sarge tells him later that their fusion was there for a only a second, too brief and too covered in blood for anyone to get a good look at him, but that when they seperated Simmons left his leg and his arm and his eye and skin and organs and blood behind with Grif. 

“Fortunate that I ordered some robo parts _ just  _ your size the other day,” he says, to which Simmons can only muster a weak “Yes sir.” 

 

Grif is slipping, being pulled towards the edge, and all Simmons can think about is diving for him at Blood Gulch and saving him. He sprints, _ leaps, _ clutches his hand says, “Don’t let go,” and tries so, so hard to fuse with him. He’s done it before, if only for a second. He can do it again if it’s to save his life, right--

His mistake, Simmons thinks, was letting himself think in the first place. You have to be on the same wavelength as someone else to fuse, have to want to be one with them, and somehow he wasn’t desperate and scared enough to match Grif, or maybe he was too desperate and scared, or maybe he’d over thought it, or maybe he just isn’t good enough to fuse with people, maybe Grif didn’t like him at  _ all-- _

They remain two people, one of them notably dangling off the edge of a cliff. He slips out of Simmons’ hand as if the two of them hadn’t been holding as hard as they could. 

 

Later, a very short while later, after they’ve pulled Grif back up onto the right side of the cliff, Simmons hugs him because you get to hug your teammate for two seconds after a particularly close brush with death without it being gay. Grif hugs back, holding tightly enough that you’d think that someone was still trying to drag him down into death, tightly enough that he could feel it through the armor. They pass the two second limit without noticing. 

Grimmons opens his eyes, his arms around himself. 

_ “Seriously?” _ he says, voice thick with incredulity and disgust (and definitely not tears) because really? “Now!?  _ Now _ we get to fuse, when there’s no danger and the fight’s all over and no one’s two inches away from falling to their death?”

“Well--” Tucker says. 

“Where the hell is the logic in that? I know evolution’s real--although who’s to say that there’s no god or not--so what exactly is the evolutionary benefit of only being able to fuse when it’s useless!?” 

“Back in Blood Gulch you--” Sarge says. 

“What’s even the point of being fused right now?” He throws his hands up, boiling over with frustration (and relief). “It does nothing!” 

“Need for emotional and physical closeness as reassurance after a traumatic incident,” Wash says dully, strapping on Church’s armor with pained slowness. 

Everyone stares at him for a moment. Wash looks up after a few seconds, just a flicker of self consciousness slipping out past his exhaustion. 

“We had fusion classes in PFL,” he defends himself. 

Grimmons looks away from Wash, deciding that he hadn’t heard anything Wash just said. 

“And another thing,” he says, “I resent how long it took everyone to check on Grif! Schrodinger's cat is only a thought experiment, it’s not meant to be used practically. Although what would you even call that? Schrodinger’s cliff? Schrodinger’s fatass? Fuck off, kiss--” 

And just like that, they fall back apart. They avoid eye contact and don’t verbally acknowledge what just happened at all. Ever. 

 

They’re on Chorus, everyone’s having an orgy for some reason, and Grif and Simmons are locked in a storage closet and keep fusing together after every orgasm. 

Grimmons breaths heavily up at the ceiling, sweaty and naked and full of endorphins, unashamedly admiring himself. All fusions are different. There are millions of people who have dedicated their lives to trying to understand how people mix, why some traits are kept and some are not, why some blend, why some are dominant, some subtle. 

Grimmons likes the way he mixes. It’s like vitiligo, except it’s a blend of three different skin tones instead of two. Brown and pale and the grey of metal, patterned like the strangest calico cat in the world. His hair is colored black and auburn in random streaks. He’s got both of Grif and Simmons’ accumulated scars as well. And tattoos. Man, that had seriously surprised him. 

“I mean,” he says, words spilling out of him to fill the silence just the way they always want to, “how couldn’t he have told him after knowing each other for so long? A whole fucking  _ tattoo.  _ Although of course, why should he have told him? He didn’t have to. And how do you even bring something like that up in casual conversation? Hey bro, the scrambled eggs are nice today and also you’ll never guess where--” 

Another one of those waves of heat he’s been experiencing all day happens, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, leaving him gasping and splitting because he needs to be two people  _ now, _ two people who can touch--

They don’t even bother separating after unfusing, melting into each other. 


	3. Grimmons curls up into a ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif hasn’t fused with anyone since the whole Blues and Reds thing. Not even once. Not even with Simmons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to hylian for inspo!

Grif hasn’t fused with anyone since the whole Blues and Reds thing. Not even once. Not even with Simmons.

Which is fine. There hasn’t really been a reason to fuse. They haven’t needed to. And sure, maybe they’ve sometimes fused when they didn’t have to before, and maybe Grif and Simmons did it a little more often with each other than anyone else, and maybe they fused more than most of the other Reds and Blues fused with each other, but. But.

It’s not a big deal that Grif doesn’t want to fuse with him any longer. It absolutely definitely isn’t. Simmons doesn’t mind. He isn’t bothered by it.

“Why haven’t we fused?” Simmons asks in a super casual way because he doesn’t care and this isn’t an important or sensitive subject, so it’s obviously okay to just chat about, right?

Grif chokes on his coffee. Simmons jumps to his side and then hovers anxiously, hands in the air, unsure whether or not it’d help to thump him on his back.

“Um?” Grif rasps eventually. “That’s-- why, why’re you asking? No reason.” He clears his throat and rapidly blinks his eyes. They’re bloodshot.

“It’s just,” Simmons says, struggling to hold onto the casualness, “we have done it in. A really long time. I think we haven’t gone this long without fusing in, uh, years?”

It just happens, sometimes, is all. Most people have to dance to fuse, and it used to be that way for Grif and Simmons too, except the longer they’ve known each other and the more times they’ve fused the easier it happens, to the point of it happening entirely on accident. It’s like their bodies got so used to blending with each other that sometimes when they’re on even the vaguely same wavelength and happen to touch each other it just. Happens.

First they just did it for fighting, for practice, for practicality, because Sarge ordered it along with a threatening cock of his shotgun. Because Grif isn’t tall enough to reach something on a shelf. Because Simmons isn’t strong enough to lift something. Because sometimes it’s just easier, better, more _fun_ to be Grimmons than Grif or Simmons.

Grimmons can talk to himself for hours, doesn’t need anyone besides himself, some snacks, a good napping spot, access to a book or a movie or a game or a show and the opportunity to prattle on _endlessly_ to himself because he can and he will and he loves it, to fully explore every crevice of an argument or a subject, to blatantly contradict himself only five minutes later in the name of looking at something from every possible angle. Being Grimmons is… comfortable. Cozy. Safe. Entertaining.

Simmons has lost count of how many times they’ve just leaned on or brushed up against each other and suddenly been one.

“Huh,” Grif says. “Must be coincidence.”

Grif also hasn’t leaned on or brushed up against Simmons once since the Blues and Reds thing, Simmons has noticed. He keeps his limbs to himself, doesn’t sprawl as much. Keeps up his personal bubble of space more, even around Simmons. (Especially around Simmons.)

“Guess so,” Simmons says.

 

Simmons is starting to suspect that Grif hasn’t slept in over 48 hours, which is a contemplation that almost makes him want to kidnap him to Chorus and throw him at Grey’s mercy. Grif _loves_ sleep. He must be wrong. Except Grif hasn’t showered or changed clothes or brushed his hair in over two days now, and there’s an entire inch of darkened skin underneath his eyes now. He keeps zoning out, needing things repeated to him, and he mumbles almost everything he says. He’s obviously dead tired. He obviously needs to sleep. Nothing and no one is stopping him.

“Who keeps drinking all of the coffee?” Grif grumbles, and starts another pot.

The answer is Grif. Well, about fifty percent of it. The other fifty percent gets poured into the sink by Simmons while Grif isn’t looking. He knows it’s wasteful, but he’d thought that Grif would’ve given up three pots ago by now. Grif is not giving up. The plan, which had been to steal away Grif’s caffeine so that the next time he sat down his exhaustion would overwhelm him and just conk him out right there on the living room sofa, is not going as planned.

“You look tired,” Simmons says as tactfully as he can manage, which means it kind of comes out as a half passive aggressive jab at his appearance.

“I wouldn’t be tired if there were more coffee,” Grif says. “And if Caboose actually went to bed when he’s supposed to. And if Lopez didn’t clunk around all night because he doesn’t sleep. And I’m pretty sure at least one of the Freelancers stress workouts during the night.”

“Mhmm,” Simmons says, even though Grif’s been able to sleep easily and regularly for years now even though all of those things have been a thing that happens for a long while now. Calling each other out over their thinly veiled lies is not a Grif and Simmons kind of thing to do. “So you’re tired then.”

Grif stiffens.

Grif had just actually verbally admitted to being tired instead of stubbornly denying it. A rookie mistake, and Grif isn’t any kind of liar rookie. He really must be tired.

“The mattress,” Grif says stiltedly. “Is lumpy.”

“Oh, you got a new mattress?” Simmons asks.

Grif knows just as well as Simmons that there haven’t been any new mattresses in the supply deliveries.

“Nope,” Grif says. “Broke it with my fat ass.”

Simmons sits and stews for a moment, wondering if breaking your mattress is actually something that can happen if you’re fat enough. Then he decides not to let this stop him from somehow fixing this problem that’s been kind of driving him up the wall lately, for absolutely no reason but the fact that leaving a problem unsolved makes him feel restless and itchy, like leaving an unmade bed or a dirty dish alone.

“Sleep on mine then,” he says.

Grif manages to choke on nothing, this time.

“What!” he says defensively before Grif’s even gotten his breath back. “It’s a completely reasonable solution!”

“Where the hell are _you_ gonna sleep, genius?” Grif asks.

“In your bed, duh,” he huffs.

“My dirty lumpy bed, in my dirty lumpy room.”

Simmons narrows his eyes. “What do you mean your room is lumpy.”

“Well there are a lot of lumps of stuff in there.”

Simmons has not forcibly cleaned Grif’s room in a while now. He shudders at the thought of its current state.

“You wouldn’t last an hour in there,” Grif says confidently, which immediately pisses Simmons off.

“We’re switching rooms tonight,” he says firmly. “And then you can finally stop drinking all of the coffee in the base. Do you have any idea how many people here would be willing to fight you for that?”

“Snitches get stitches, Simmons,” Grif says with a meaningful look at him.

 

Simmons tries to sleep for two hours, lying in Grif’s bed as his brain screams. And then it occurs to him that Grif definitely hasn’t washed his sheets either, and he springs up and away, desperately trying to brush the germs off of himself with his hands. Okay, okay fuck. He just has to clean up a little-- no, if he does that he’ll clean the rest of the night away. He just has to find a different place to sleep. The couch?

He leaves. Treads slowly and quietly down the hallways, trying not to wake anyone up, and then as he passes his own room where Grif’s presumably sleeping he thinks _the mattress wasn’t lumpy at all._

That filthy _liar._

Simmons opens the door to his room without a second thought to see Grif sound asleep in his bed, covers winded around him and clutching at the pillow like it’s another person and-- is that one of Simmons’ shirts?

He falters in the doorway. He’d been expecting to find Grif lying awake doing his insomnia shit again, but he really is asleep. Switching rooms really did help for some reason--

Grif groans and shifts, and Simmons self consciously closes the door behind him so there isn’t a rectangle of light falling on him. He doesn’t want to wake him--

“Simmons?” Grif murmurs groggily.

Goddamnit.

“Your room is disgusting,” he whispers and walks towards the bed. “Scoot over.” Wait, what?

“Okay,” he sighs like this isn’t a strange request at all, and rolls over so there’s some space for Simmons on the bed. It’s a single, so there’s no way they won’t be touching-- Grif hasn’t touched him once--

He gets into the bed before he can overthink it. He has tug at the covers so that Grif’ll share, but there’s no getting that pillow back. He lies down on his back, refusing to just nuzzle into Grif’s back like he wants to. But they’re definitely touching, their combined body heat a warm line down his side, and he feels dizzy just lying down as something tight unspools inside of his chest, some burden lifting. He closes his eyes and lets his brow smooth out, relaxes.

Can’t resist leaning into a patch of skin, and Grif makes some kind of sound, and Simmons releases a shuddering breath--

Grimmons curls up into a ball, arms around himself, and says, “I was just-- shit, fuck, no,” and then he’s crying. The kind that makes his chest ache, makes him have to muffle himself with a hand and want to hide his face away from the empty room. “I really missed you,” he says some long moments of fruitlessly trying to compose himself later, voice small to sneak it past the lump in his throat.

And then he wipes his face and tries to fall asleep, because he doesn’t feel alone at all like this. He knows that Simmons is right there, okay. He knows that Grif is right there, okay. Nothing to worry or obsess over.

He dreams about nothing.

 

They must have unfused at some point during the night, because they wake up in each others arms. They absolutely don’t talk about anything that happened last night.

 

Simmons waits and sees if Grif’s insomnia thing will continue and if he has to do something about it or not (something being sleeping in the same bed maybe perhaps since it’s such an obvious and logical solution) but he notices no bags under his eyes, no clumsy fumbling with his hands or his words. Grif is as clear eyed and well rested as ever.

He’s relieved and disappointed at the same time, which is obviously one of those things he should just repress forever.

It takes him a while to notice that _he_ isn’t really sleeping.

He just happens to have some late nights, filling requisition forms because they’re always breaking and needing new stuff, shooting up from bed at the brink of sleep because he just remembered that he hasn’t folded the laundry yet, and did he remember to turn off the oven or not? He had. It’s better to check, though. The next person who burns their base to the ground is going to have to face some kind of punishment concocted by Sarge and Wash, and he doesn’t want to find out what that particular combination of people will come up with.

He isn’t avoiding sleeping, after just one measly strange dream of walking through an empty base, feeling unbearably lonely. Or two. Or three. Or just because that’s what he sees every time he falls asleep.

Simmons finds excuses to work and run around doing chores until three in the morning, and gets into bed without changing his alarm that’ll wake him up in less than four hours. Lies in bed, exhausted and damn near vibrating nervous energy at the same time.

If he _is_ avoiding sleep to avoid the dreams that’s, well, pathetic. It’s just some huge, vague feeling of overwhelming loneliness, of the certainty that he’s never going to see another person again. That’s… needy. And more sad than scary when he puts it into words like that. That’s not nightmare material. He’s had better than that, like when Sarge kept finding more and more things to fix and tune up during a routine checkup, and wouldn’t let him leave until he’d taken all of his flesh away. Or like that time he looked over the side of the cliff on Sidewinder only to find no ground or Grif at all, no matter how closely he looked. Just darkness.

So it sure is a good thing that Simmons isn’t avoiding sleep to avoid dreaming about being _lonely._

 

He is alone. The wind howls outside of the base, the world invisible through the windows due to  the constant flurry of snow. If he walks outside, he’ll get lost and freeze and die. He stays inside. With the squad.

He is alone and not alone at the same time. Everyone’s here, all accounted for. Yang in the armory. Kane in the cafeteria. Chilton in the hallway leading towards the training room. Gordy in his room, killed in his bed but with his eyes open, like he’d just gotten enough time to wake up but not enough to do anything else.

He walks through the hallways, through every single room, over and over again, like he’s suddenly going to stumble across someone new, like if he opens the cafeteria door the one hundredth time Kane is going to be there eating some shitty army food and she’ll look up at him and smile and ask him how his day’s going.

He is utterly alone. Apart from the wind, everything is very, very quiet. The radio crackles white noise. Won’t be able to reach anyone until the storm’s over. The storm is endless, vast, is never ever going to stop. His food is going to run out and the heating’s going to fail and he’ll starve and freeze in here, trapped, alone.

Grif fucked up.

 

He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling as he slowly remembers who he is. Simmons. Richard Simmons, Captain of the United Army of Chorus, of Maroon Team, Private of the Red Army, unwittingly sold human cannon fodder of the UNSC.

He has never been stationed on a base on an arctic planet. He has never known a Yang or Kane or a Chilton or a Gordy. Has never lived with their corpses as he weathered out a storm. Has never had a deep seated fear of being alone again, wandering the halls of an empty base in the search of anyone, anyone at all.

Simmons closes his eyes and remembers in sudden and vivid detail fusing for the very first time in his life. The terror and heady desperation of it, the haste, the way things had gloriously clicked for just a second and then the pain had hit and they’d been torn apart and-- Simmons had left things behind. Everything Grif had lost or broken, limbs and blood and skin and organs. He gave it all.

Grif is sleeping well and Simmons isn’t. Simmons took something, this time.

Simmons fucked up.

 

Simmons sees Grif during breakfast the next morning, and there are words trying to escape past his teeth. Words like _I didn’t know it was so bad_ and _did you really live with corpses for how long why what happened are you okay_ and _I stole your trauma for myself._

Grif gives Simmons a lazy smile, his eyes still sleepy and the hair on the left side of his head mussed from being pressed up against the pillow all night, and he looks so perfectly fine and at ease that Simmons is instantly struck speechless over how he can’t remember the last time Grif looked like that.

Grif squints at him a little. “Did you stay up all night doing paperwork again, you nerd.”

 _“Someone_ has to do it,” Simmons says.

“We’re literally living off the grid, dumbass.”

Simmons doesn’t have a decent comeback for that, so instead he makes a disgruntled noise like he can’t put into words how idiotic Grif is being. Grif smiles again, that crooked warm little thing that makes the insides of his chest go-- weird, and then he holds out a cup of coffee for Simmons. He looks at it.

Takes it, carefully placing his fingers so that he won’t brush up against Grif. A weird look flickers lightning quick across Grif’s face, and Simmons takes a too big, too fast drink of his hot coffee.

“I’m going to make eggs and bacon,” he says, and doesn’t say any of the other words bunching up inside of him.

“Yeah, I’m getting in on that action,” Grif says.

“You’re getting one egg and two slices of bacon,” he says firmly.

“That’s nothing!” Grif says. “Three eggs and six slices.”

“Two eggs and four slices,” he compromises along with a narrowing of his eyes.

“Oh, fine, twist my arm,” Grif says.

Simmons gives him a suspicious look and then carefully maneuvers around him towards the fridge, as if touching him would be the same as touching a hot stove.

Simmons shouldn’t have forgotten this: he doesn’t fuck up. He doesn’t make mistakes. Therefore, the decision he made was the right one. Grif’s trauma sitting like a cold lump of ice in the back of his brain is exactly where it should be. He can handle it. It’s just some dreams. He’s been sleep deprived before. He should feel the consequences of what he helped create, or at least made worse, at least didn’t stop from happening.

Grif is unusually quiet behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration was done by the wonderful [creatrixanimi!](https://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/) Check her stuff out!


	4. Sarboose huffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you see a person fuse with other people enough times, you eventually pick up on a pattern. Commonalities, personality traits that stubbornly persist and stand out.
> 
> Like for example: every person Caboose fuses with seem to lose half their IQ points, seventy percent of their volume control, and all of their filter. Also, they became very tall. And rather fond of hugs.
> 
> Grif had never thought to imagine what this would look like on Sarge, because he was foolishly optimistic enough to assume that the diehard Red would never fuse with the bluest guy in the whole canyon. Assuming the best is rarely a problem he has, but here he is, screaming as he’s being ripped out of his bed by a hand big enough to hold his entire body in its palm.

If you see a person fuse with other people enough times, you eventually pick up on a pattern. Commonalities, personality traits that stubbornly persist and stand out.

Like for example: every person Caboose fuses with seem to lose half their IQ points, seventy percent of their volume control, and all of their filter. Also, they became _very_ tall. And rather fond of hugs.

Grif had never thought to imagine what this would look like on Sarge, because he was foolishly optimistic enough to assume that the diehard Red would never fuse with the bluest guy in the whole canyon. Assuming the best is rarely a problem he has, but here he is, screaming as he’s being ripped out of his bed by a hand big enough to hold his entire body in its palm.

“PRIVATE GRUF,” a _very_ loud Southern accent hollers at him.

“AAAAHHHH,” Grif responds. He woke up less than second ago and now there’s adrenaline coursing through his veins. He’s justified.

“Wake up!” the giant holding him says, holding him close to his face for maximum volume and examination of face. His eyeball alone is almost as big as Grif’s face. Brown eyes. A freckled babyface with old man grey hair and aged battlescars. Each armor piece colored either a strong blue or an equally strong red. 

“Who are you!?” he asks, his voice definitely not jumping a few octaves.

“Sargent Private Sarboose, reporting for duty!” the fusions says, and then salutes with the hand still holding Grif. He groans as the world blurs before him, and then his hair flops into his face.

“What have I done to deserve this.”

“Being lazy and not playing with me!” Sarboose huffs.

“That’s the Blues obligation. The Reds just do it when they’ve got nothing else to do… which is always… Please put me down, uh, sir?”

Sarboose stops saluting so he can hold Grif out at arms length to study him thoughtlessly as he carefully considers this request. “Hmm,” Sarboose says. “Hmmmmmmmmm. No. Nope. I don’t think so!”

“Why!” he demands, anguished.

Sarboose gives him a brief squeeze like a stress ball, and Grif wheezes. Sarboose laughs with pure childish glee.

“You are very, very soft, Private Gruf,” Sarboose very loudly whispers to Grif, like he’s imparting an important secret very incompetently. “And I need to show everyone else in the canyon.”

“What,” Grif says.

“Church needs to know first!” Sarboose exclaims. “Diabolical-- _so_ cool-- he’s going to be so impressed that I have the softest soldier!”

And then he stomps off through the base to haul Grif to the other side of the canyon to presumably shove him into the Blues faces while loudly bragging about him and also maybe squeezing his intestines out of his mouth if he forgets to watch his strength. 

Grif, absolutely horrified, realizes that he’s the ragged teddybear of that kid who plays too roughly with his toys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also check! [this!](http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/175102405282/primtheamazing-the-newest-chapter-of-mixing) shit! out!!!! holy fuck that is some cool art thank u for my life creatrix


	5. Lolix is a last resort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lolix is a last resort. He’s the equivalent of a nuke. Devastating and horrifying and extremely effective. During the war, they fused into him only once. It had been so unpleasant that Locus had refused every other time Felix had suggested it. It was like there was gunk inside of his brain that he had to clean out but couldn’t reach, tainting everything, making him more cynical and snappish than he’d already been in a desperate warzone. He had just used it as motivation to find other solutions, to drive him to further heights, across more and more lines.

Lolix is a last resort. He’s the equivalent of a nuke. Devastating and horrifying and extremely effective. During the war, they fused into him only once. It had been so unpleasant that Locus had refused every other time Felix had suggested it. It was like there was gunk inside of his brain that he had to clean out but couldn’t reach, tainting everything, making him more cynical and snappish than he’d already been in a desperate warzone. He had just used it as motivation to find other solutions, to drive him to further heights, across more and more lines. 

They fuse into Lolix one more time when they have to, during their bounty hunting days. Lolix is bigger then than he was last time. Stronger, Felix says. More inhuman, Locus doesn’t say. 

During their mercenary days, Locus loses count. They get themselves into more and more dire situations, like taking a single easy job might be what actually kills them, and there keeps being more and more of a need for Lolix. And Felix never loses his appetite for being Lolix. He asks and asks and suggests and demands and wheedles. Eventually, Locus learns that it’s just easier to give in from the start, to fuse and get it over with, the faster the better and sooner it’s done. 

By the time they’re on Chorus, Lolix has serrated teeth like a predator. 

“God, it’s been ages,” Felix had said, reaching out a hand to Locus, and he hadn’t even needed to spell it out for Locus to get what he was asking (ordering) for. 

Better to just get it over with. He grabs Felix by the wrist and pulls him sharply around until he’s lost his balance and he’s leaning him down, dipping him. Felix grins sharp and unamused and holds onto him too tightly. It takes only a few more dance moves, resembling violent shoves and pushes and pulling more than anything else, trying to keep each other unbalanced. 

A brief flash of light. Lolix opens his eyes. Another set of eyes. Another set of eyes. Enough eyes that he’s always got several open and watching, every angle covered, dozens of cameras for all of them so there isn’t even a visor weak spot for anyone to shoot at. They blink out of synch with each other. 

More people are shooting at him than there had been before. He’s large. He’s holding a sword, a knife, a gun, and a rifle. He stands out. His invisible shield flickers on and stops the bullets. 

With one step he  _ stomps _ down on one soldier, breaking and killing them instantly. One of their legs sticking out from underneath his foot twitches like a bugs. The cracking armor had felt and sounded like a carapace snapping apart underneath his boot as well, actually. 

He smiles slightly, and he doesn’t know why. 

Lolix looks up from the dead soldier as people start screaming, and decides: no one is leaving this battlefield alive today. No one but him. 


	6. Grocus crumbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif reaches for the radio, and Locus grabs his wrist, annoyed and impatient.
> 
> “This song,” he says, “is fine.”
> 
> He chances a more direct look at Grif. Grif is looking down at where Locus is holding him, like he’s seeing something absolutely entrancing.
> 
> It occurs to Locus that this is the first time he’s touched someone alive for the first time in months.

Locus doesn’t think that Grif has stopped talking for longer than five seconds since he picked him up, and even that was an anomalous incident in which he’d accidentally bit off too much food at once and had to struggle with it for a moment.

“--and it always smells like Donut’s perfume and Tucker’s shitty cologne and motor oil that I’m not sure is coming from Sarge, Simmons, Lopez, or Caboose, and Wash and Carolina work out so much they’re sweaty basically half of the day but the smell’s all gone by now and oh do you know? Why Simmons smells like motor oil? It’s because he’s a cyborg did you know that people often don’t know that for some reason I don’t know it just doesn’t come up that often I guess it’s just a thing you know? It’s been a thing for years, like--”

Locus reaches out and wordlessly turns on the radio. He tends to just drive in silence, with no noise in space but that of the silent hum of his ship’s inner workings reaching him, getting perhaps dangerously lost in thought if it weren’t for the fact that when in space you tend to be flying miles away from the nearest tangible object.  

“--oh is this music? Do you like music? I like music, I like some music, I like some music sometimes, you know? I mean I prefer talking, talking to Simmons I guess, he’s fun to talk to but I also like listening to people even if I can’t really make out what they’re saying so long as I can tell they aren’t like really upset or something, like maybe I hear Sarge shouting about something, Sarge is _always_ shouting about something, or maybe Caboose is shouting about something or maybe Sarboose is shouting about something and oh have you ever met Sarboose? He’s really strong oh my god you have to meet him, I wonder if he could beat Lolix in an armwrestling match--”

Locus suppresses a twitch, and then reaches out and turns up the volume on the music. It’s something vaguely Spanish sounding with classical guitars, no vocals. Fast tempoed, decent.

“--do you not want to talk about Lolix? That’s cool that’s cool I can do that I can keep my mouth shut--”

Locus doubts that.

“--just kind of wish we were listening to something with words maybe--”

“This is fine,” he says. He sees Grif startle in his seat a little out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, sorry!” he says. “You didn't talk for so long I kind of forgot that you could? Sorry that’s weird of course you can talk it’s not like you’re _a volleyball_ or something stupid like that and okay but can we _please_ listen to something with words in it--”

Grif reaches for the radio, and Locus grabs his wrist, annoyed and impatient.

“This song,” he says, “is fine.”

He chances a more direct look at Grif. Grif is looking down at where Locus is holding him, like he’s seeing something absolutely entrancing.

It occurs to Locus that this is the first time he’s touched someone alive for the first time in months.

Through two layers of armor and kevlar and a hazy mind. Calm down.

He moves to let go and Grif takes his hand. The music picks up.

“Um,” Grif says unsteadily.

“What?” Locus says.

“Sorry,” Grif says. “Sorry! That just kind of-- didn’t think, uuuuhhh, I’ll let go now, sorry.”

He doesn’t let go. Locus tugs his hand back and Grif continues not to let go, swaying closer into him with the motion, their armor clacking against each other.

He’s too close. Locus would never let someone this close, hasn’t for so long that he can’t even remember the last time it happened. (Except for Felix, who is always the exception, who would elbow his way into Locus’ space and up into his face whenever the urge struck him no matter what Locus thought about it, hissing arguments, pointing finger stabbing into his chest, narrowed eyes so close he could see the green flecks in the brown. Or his eyes would be half lidded and his voice soft as he gently reminded him of harsh realities that had slipped his mind. Except, of course, none of that had been reality had it--)

He breathes in deeply through his nose. This is not a power play. It’s something sad, Grif reaching out for the only available person, and unfortunately that person is actually a monster. Patience. Kindness. Turning over a new leaf, as he’d said.

“Grif,” he says, reigning in the exasperation in his voice to the best of his ability, something he’s not used to even attempting. “Alright. We can change the station.”

“Oh,” Grif says, and Locus feels like he missed a step in the stairs with how startled he is at the emotion in that one syllable. Like he’s done something _generous,_ and not just conceded to something mundane.

The music reaches a crescendo. Grif is still holding his hand. For just a moment, Locus holds it back. Wants to-- wants to help, reach out--

Something shifts. His brain, his body, his guts, his armor, _something._ He blinks and looks down at himself.

Grey and white and orange armor, and his heart jackhammers for a moment except, wait, no. Wrong shade of orange. And he’s always coldly satisfied to be Lolix after fusing, isn’t he--

Two hands go up to his helmet, another two are holding each other. Four arms? He’s never fused into someone with four arms, just two-- no Lolix has five--

Lolix is dead along with--

His hands are suddenly unclasping, rushing for the radio, and he’s transmitting his frequency, his location, except wait he shouldn’t do that he’s a criminal, wanted for, for, the Reds and Blues are wanted for crimes they didn't commit, Locus is wanted for crimes he _did_ commit.

He isn’t one of the Reds and Blues any longer. He doesn’t feel like Locus any longer either.

“This,” he says into the radio, “this is Grocus. Is anyone out there? Please?”

Just the sound of his ship and the silence of space.

“Simmons?” he tries. “Felix?”

Felix is dead and Simmons is gone.

 _“What kind of name is Grocus?”_ a stranger asks him over the radio, and he shuts it off immediately because that’s a stranger he can’t trust him (like knowing someone protects you), and then his stomach swoops, plunges, because there had been a voice right there, a person, and now they’re gone, he ruined and totalled and blew his one chance all on his own and now he’s all on his own all on his own--

Grocus crumbles apart. Locus and Grif are both breathing heavily and the radio and space is quiet and the only sound is the ship and their breathing and his pulse and if Locus closes his eyes and listens extra closely he thinks he might be able to hear Grif’s heartbeat too, they’re so close--

Locus scrambles off of him and gets into his seat, focuses on piloting the ship. They’ve drifted slightly off course, and he corrects.

“Oh my god,” Grif says.

Locus considers turning the radio back on, but clearly that had been a mistake. Music makes fusing easier, like training wheels for a bike. That’s obviously the only reason that happened-- Locus, fusing with a near stranger just because he wanted to _help_ (the first time he’s genuinely wanted to help someone in years--)

“Oh my god, that was so _cool_ and _weird!”_ Grif exclaims, sitting up sharply. “We fused! We fused for like a minute but I haven’t done that with anyone since the guys left! I’ve never fused with anyone before except for Kai and the guys! Oh my god! Are we friends now? Can we do it again but for longer and less sad and confused? We’ll totally nail it this time, I know what’s up, okay, it won’t be weird and oh my god can we do this for _the mission?_ I’ll bet we’ll be so cool! We could shoot like two rifles at the same time, everyone’ll be like who the hell is that!? And then we’ll--”

‘Can we do this for the mission’ makes ice run through his veins for a moment. That’s how it starts, that’s the excuse, and then there are more and more missions and more and more fusions and Locus will lose a little more of himself every single time, except this time he knows it isn’t a good thing.

“--uh Locus? Locus? Locus? Are you okay, buddy? Locus? Is it weird that I called you buddy? Locus? I’m sorry if I said something bad, I’m a dumbass okay just ignore me--”

He takes a deep breath. This is not Felix, or any kind of manipulator. It’s just a lonely, desperate man.

Birds of a feather.

“We’re not fusing again,” he says firmly.

“Oh,” Grif says, an echo of himself before, except the emotion behind the word this time makes his skin itch with guilt. “Okay.”

He has nothing to feel guilty for. He owes this man-- well, quite a lot actually, considering.

He saved him from being stranded on a moon and is now reuniting him with his friends and saving them simultaneously. He’s working on it.

He reaches out and turns the radio on.

“Choose the station,” he says.

Grif perks back up, like the most easily pleased daisy.

“No electroswing,” he says forbiddingly. Too smug and jaunty. Felix always chose it and now he’s ruined an entire genre of music for Locus.

“Okay!” Grif chirps. And then, as he’s fiddling with the dial, “You know, you’d think maybe Simmons would like electroswing, or Donut, but actually--”

Locus sighs quietly, and considers taking Lopez back out of the glovebox to distract him.


	7. Tuckboose poses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuckboose poses and flexes for him in a way that reminds him of Caboose proudly showing him his latest crayon drawing. Waiting for praise. “So, ah, be honest, Agent Wash.  _ All  _ of the ladies are gonna want to be friends with me, right?” 

It isn’t hard to pinpoint who the fusion is, even though it’s Wash first time seeing him and he wasn’t there for the fusing. Tuckboose has Caboose’s unrestrained smile and rock solid muscles, and Tucker’s dark skin and long hair. A sort of meld when it came to the subtler features - the nose, the chin, the brow. He’s certainly one of the shortest Caboose fusions Wash has ever met, meaning the top of his head just barely brushes the ceiling. 

“AGENT WASH,” Tuckboose hollers delightedly, in the way of most Caboose fusions. 

Wash, long since used to Caboose’s volume issues just smiles. “Hey, Tuckboose,” he says. “It’s good to see you two finally growing closer.” 

“Psht,” Tuckboose says. “We’re the  _ closest,  _ Agent Wash, okay, just, like, the best.” 

“Uh huh,” Wash says. 

Tuckboose poses and flexes for him in a way that reminds him of Caboose proudly showing him his latest crayon drawing. Waiting for praise. “So, ah, be honest, Agent Wash.  _ All  _ of the ladies are gonna want to be friends with me, right?” 

Wash’s lip twitches, and he bites his bottom lip a bit. “Yeah, um.” Clears his throat a bit. “I’m sure lots of women will want to be friends with you, Tuckboose.” 

Tuckboose perks up and bounces a bit at the praise, and Wash briefly worries for the ceiling. “Yeah! Yeah, yes, they’ll love me and we can all play together in a super big bed--”

Wash starts coughing. 

“--so we can all fit and then we’ll  _ pillowfight _ and  _ tickle--”  _

“All of that good stuff,” Wash says, desperately trying to tamp down on the strangled tone to his voice. 

“And then we could play _ truth or dare,” _ Tuckboose says. “I could dare them to, uhhh, _ hug.  _ Oh my god! We could all hug each other!” 

“Mhm,” Wash hums, because any words would come out far too high pitched right now. 

“And then,” Tuckboose says, and Wash prays for strength, “we can watch the  _ adult  _ movies-- you know, like all of the scary movies you won’t let Caboose watch because he breaks stuff when he gets spooked, except I won’t get spooked because I’m a super brave hero and also all of my lady friends will hold my hand!” 

“That,” Wash breathes near soundlessly, tears in his eyes, “that sounds great, Tuckboose. You’ve got a real nice night planned out. A very nice sleepover.” 

“Orgy,” Tuckboose corrects him, and Wash instantly collapses to his knees, howling with laughter. 


	8. Lolix shoots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus and Felix fuse once while they’re bounty hunters. 
> 
> Felix doesn’t bug Locus for fusing any longer. Not verbally. They just have to be in any kind of tight spot, and then he just has to send Locus a  _ look, _ and Locus will know what he’s asking for and he’ll grit his teeth and he’ll risk his life and kill people that aren’t the target and solve the problem on his  _ own,  _ without Lolix’s help. And then later Felix can deny ever asking Locus to fuse with him even though he knows he doesn’t want to because he _ didn’t  _ ask, and Locus will be unable to explain to Siris or even Felix what had happened without sounding completely-- irrational. (Crazy.) 
> 
> So Locus solves the problem and Felix gets away with not-asking. Usually. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda gorey this chapter since lolix is bassssicaly a monster

Locus and Felix fuse once while they’re bounty hunters. 

Felix doesn’t bug Locus for fusing any longer. Not verbally. They just have to be in any kind of tight spot, and then he just has to send Locus a  _ look, _ and Locus will know what he’s asking for and he’ll grit his teeth and he’ll risk his life and kill people that aren’t the target and solve the problem on his  _ own,  _ without Lolix’s help. And then later Felix can deny ever asking Locus to fuse with him even though he knows he doesn’t want to because he _ didn’t  _ ask, and Locus will be unable to explain to Siris or even Felix what had happened without sounding completely-- irrational. (Crazy.) 

So Locus solves the problem and Felix gets away with not-asking. Usually. 

They’re in a tight spot. Felix sends Locus a look. Locus wracks his brain for any kind of solution. Looks at where Siris had been stranded behind some half decent cover on the other side of the warehouse so large that the gunshots echo thunderously in the empty space. It vaguely reminds him of thunder, bombs. He likes neither. 

He can’t think of any other solution. 

He’d sworn to himself that he’d never let it come to that again, wouldn’t sink that low again. 

Siris has a life and a family and decency and hope and he’s stranded behind some half empty metal crates that are being steadily whittled away by gunfire. 

“Locus,” Felix says urgently, not a shout, almost drowned out by the gunfire. Locus looks away from Siris to Felix. Felix’s eyes are piercing and intense, unblinking, fixed on him. He doesn’t say anything more. 

He knows the situation speaks for him, the bastard. 

He holds out a hand, and Felix grins despite their situation and crawls over to him, movements hampered by the fact that they’re hiding away from bullets as best they can. It’s so loud. Felix practically clambers into his lap, all bony knees and sharp elbows and fingers digging in, careless and reckless with his gun. 

It’s hard to do anything close to resembling dancing, being this penned in, but dancing isn’t  _ really _ necessary. They just need to be one the same page, touching, reaching out towards each other. Locus wraps a large hand around the back of Felix’s neck and presses their foreheads up against each other. 

“For the mission,” he says, eyes closed, picturing his objective as clearly as possible. “For Siris.” 

“We’re going to win,” Felix agrees. “We’re going to survive this.  _ They’re _ going to die, not us.” 

It’s all true. They’re going to make it true. Locus digs his fingers a little harder into the back of Felix’s neck, presses him harder against him, like he can push him through his skin. Felix sways into him hungrily. 

Lolix is too large for the cover that had shielded Felix and Locus. More than the sums of his parts. The gunfire pauses for just a moment, shocked, and he notices it immediately of course, unnatural like bird song abruptly going dead quiet. He snaps his gun out towards one of the now quiet sources of gunfire, doesn’t look, squeezes the trigger, aims at another target with his other hand, pushes himself up with his third hand before he’s even heard a body hitting the ground. 

Lolix is large, his legs long, and he covers the cavernous distance in the warehouse quickly and easily, before his prey can scuttle off into new and different mouseholes to shoot from. Faster than them. Bigger than them. Stronger than them. 

Lolix pounces on the nearest prey-loser-enemy and tears it apart with his bare hands, breaks the bones until its just a bag of meat with sharp broken sticks inside of it, poking out here and there. 

Gunfire from behind him. Siris’ location. 

Lolix has an eye in the back of his neck, and he flicks hair aside with a sharp movement of his head as he breaks the captured prey more thoroughly. Siris isn’t shooting at him. He lets his hair fall back into place. 

He presses a hand down on the ribcage and feels the give of them first bowing and then snapping underneath his palm, muffled by flesh, a sound that makes his breath catch for some reason.  __

This is what winning sounds and feels like, the give and the snap of an already dead thing’s breaking ribs. Winning so thoroughly that there was never a shot in hell that this nobody was going to be able to kill him. He knows this like how many bullets he has left and how many other things with guns are left in the warehouse. 

Lolix shoots and kills two more nothings without looking away from what’s rapidly turning into just blood and gristle covered by some rags. Eventually, there’s footsteps cautiously approaching behind him, and he comes within an inch of killing it before he realizes that it’s Siris. 

The mission objective. 

“... Lolix?” Siris asks uncertainly. He can’t see what Lolix is making, with his bulk obscuring it, but he can certainly hear it. 

Lolix makes a humming noise to show that he’s listening. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Mission,” he says. Always. 

“He’s dead, Lolix,” Siris says, voice soft. Like he doesn’t know and he’s explaining. Lolix digs his fingers into the dead flesh, staring at it. “You can unfuse now.” 

“I’m stronger like this,” he says. Statement of fact. 

“You don’t need to be strong--” 

A noise escapes his throat, and it sounds violently disagreeing, even if it isn’t a word. 

“--Lolix, it’s okay,” Siris says. “You’re safe now.” 

“No one can kill me,” he says, and that’s true too. He’s too good of a weapon. 

“All of the enemies are dead,” he says. “We did it. You can stop now.” 

Lolix kneels on the floor with a lump of cooling flesh draped over his knees, and he doesn’t move. 

“Lolix?” 

“What are the mission parameters,” he says. 

“The--?” 

_ “What is the fucking mission.”  _ He finally turns away from his task, shoving it out of the way and onto the floor, and turns towards Siris. 

He has his safety on. His gun isn’t even turned in Lolix’s direction, pointed at the floor. Lolix feels his lip twist. Weaknesses in enemies are to be exploited, but weaknesses in allies-- they get you killed. 

This can’t be his ally. Too weak, too trusting, gets you killed. He needs someone sharp and desperate to help him survive, keep him wary. 

There are only two living things left in the warehouse. He needs missions to survive because death is unacceptable and living is impossible. 

“The mission’s over,” Siris says. 

“No,” Lolix says. “What’s the mission?” 

He  _ needs _ to be on a mission. All of him needs to do the one thing he’s any good at any longer, and there is a part of him that screams at the idea of separating, of _ weakening. _ If he isn’t killing then he’ll have to  _ think.  _

“There is no--”

“Are you the mission?” he asks, and his thoughts catches up with the words belatedly, turns over the question in his mind. Killing Siris. 

Siris is--  _ obnoxious _ helpful  _ an obstacle _ an aid _ doesn’t fucking understand _ doesn’t really understand _ in the way _ a balm--

When they unfuse, Felix is clean and facing Siris, smiling and already talking. Locus is on his knees facing the body, dizzy and reeling, covered in all of the blood. His mouth tastes like bile and he has a headache. 

“--strange fusion,” Siris is saying. 

“But useful though, right?” Felix says. “Lolix saved our asses!” 

Locus stands up slowly, carefully. His head pounds. He needs to shower and change, get away from this warehouse. 

Felix looks at him over his shoulder, smile friendly but with an edge only Locus can apparently see. “We should fuse next mission too.” 

Locus thinks about killing Siris. 

“No.” 

“Spoilsport,” Felix says, and that is definitely not the end of it. Now that Siris has seen how useful Lolix is, now that Felix has gotten a rejuvenating taste of him, he’ll push and push and push until Locus does something drastic or Siris starts telling him to stop and Felix is outnumbered. 

Locus leaves without another word or backwards glance. 


	9. Carboose hiccups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “CARBOOSE,” he shouts before the sight has even fully registered, before it can occur to him to wonder what this fusion’s name might be, “WHAT DID YOU DO!?”
> 
> “Tucker did it!” they shout reflexively.
> 
> Wash gestures with his entire body at Tucker lying face down on the ground. “OH? ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO GO WITH THAT?”

Caboose and Carolina fuse, and Tucker almost dies. 

“I WON,” they say triumphantly. They’re tall enough that they can’t come into the base through the door, have long curly red hair, tan skin, Caboose’s freckles, Carolina’s green eyes, and the most terrifyingly impressive muscles Wash has ever witnessed. And he knew  _ Maine.  _

They’re also standing over Tucker, who is prone and unmoving. 

“CARBOOSE,” he shouts before the sight has even fully registered, before it can occur to him to wonder what this fusion’s name might be, “WHAT DID YOU DO!?” 

“Tucker did it!” they shout reflexively. 

Wash gestures with his entire body at Tucker lying face down on the ground. “OH? ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO GO WITH THAT?” 

Caboose would have panicked and gone with the shitty lie against all logic. Carboose goes, “Uhhh……..  _ No.”  _

It’s pretty good, compared to most Caboose fusions. 

Wash takes a deep breath and takes Tucker’s pulse. It’s there. 

“What even happened?” he asks them. 

“I told you, I  _ won,” _ they say like it’s obvious. 

“Won _ what.”  _

“Being the best.” 

“And how do you measure that?” 

“Hot dog eating competition.” 

“... Ah.” Wash pats Tucker consolingly a couple of times on the back, and then stands up, alarm over and done with. He squints up at Carboose, who grins happily down at him. Carolina’s competitiveness along with Caboose’s rivalry with Tucker, huh. Wash should be careful not to leave Tucker all alone at their mercy again. 

“I thought maybe you’d sparred and it had gotten out of hand,” he says. “You know, with Caboose’s strength and Carolina’s skill he wouldn’t really be a match for you.” 

They grin wider. “Yes, I know. Say it again.” 

Wash starts to grin himself. “You’re very talented, Carboose.” 

They giggle and sit down. “Again!” they say, like demanding to see a magic trick once more. 

“You’re a very special fusion.” 

They lean down into his space. “Again.” 

“I love you very much.” 

They abruptly rock back and put their face in their hands and yell. “Aaah! Agent Wash! Ah! Thank you!” 

Wash rubs at his face to hide his hopelessly endeared smile. “No problem, buddy. Boss buddy?” 

They peek at him from between their fingers. Their face is going pink, but they’re still smiling. “One more time?” they ask hopefully. 

“You’re taller than Locus, more energetic than Kai, stronger than the sum of your parts, and you have an ego that enjoys stroking more than Church.” 

Carboose blinks down at him for a moment, and then their face crumples, their shoulders stoop, and they  _ wail. _ Wash jumps like someone just threw a bucket of cold water into his face. 

“What--?” 

“Ch--Church!” Carboose hiccups. 

“Oh my god,” Wash says. 

Carboose is  _ sobbing. _ It’s bad but so sudden that it feels surreal, like in a nightmare where the ground suddenly starts melting underneath you. 

“Buddy-- boss-- babe? Fuck, no, shit.” 

Carboose keeps crying big fat tears and streaming snot, heedless of Wash’s struggles. 

“I’m sorry,” he says helplessly. “Carolina and Caboose don’t react this badly to just hearing his name, I’m  _ sorry, _ it was just a joke. Come here?” And he opens his arms for a hug, running on pure half panicked autopilot. 

Carboose lunges and lifts him up into a backbreaking hug without hesitation. 

“There there,” he says, half strangled, and pats as much of Carboose’s back as he can reach. 

“You’re my best friend,” Carboose gets out in between lots of crying noises. 

“You too… bro? Hmm, maybe. You’re my best friend too.” 

Tucker groans from the ground. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the sound of electro-swing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15518580) by [relationshipcrimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes)




End file.
